The Aspiring Bard

Source A fearful, Tearful silence, And all the words that bleed From page to page In black-and-white encryptions Of things I couldn't say.

Golden morning Filters through The autumn-burnished Poplar leaves And I, All unexpectedly, Am rich.

Source Skirting the pretentious fronts Of mansions in a stately row, Displaying closely shuttered eyes That bid me 'do not enter here', I find, at last, a lonely house, Sitting quiet in the dark, Shabby, yes, and very small, But with uncurtained windows lit To guide me in And welcome. 

We crowned you as our Autumn queen With wreaths of sunlight In your hair And spilled our Golden treasure hoard Into the gingham Of your lap. Source But now you're grown And mostly gone And seasons change A lonely king. We face the winter, Cold and bare. Our splendor fades, As leaf by leaf Is left to molder In the sod And raindrops mingle With our tears.